


Insignificant

by heilz



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 17:47:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2034297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heilz/pseuds/heilz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal gets a mosquito bite and massively pointless introspection ensues. (Is possibly worth the two-minute read.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insignificant

**Author's Note:**

> I got a mosquito bite the other day and it occurred to me: what would happen if Hannibal got a mosquito bite? Like, things like that happen, right? But I kind of got off-track and you'll see a bit of canon-level Hannigram bleed through, naturally.  
> Honestly, I have no idea why I actually went through with writing this.

 

As a non-sociopathic yet perfectly deranged cannibalistic serial killer, there wasn’t much the world had to offer other than petty vulgarity that bothered someone like Hannibal Lecter. As for those who _did_ manage to irk the man to the point of impeccably masked irritation...well, for them, the cannibalism spoke for itself.

But what to do when an unforeseen predicament that could not be solved with a dash of salt and pepper arose?

What to do when the perpetrator was no bigger than a fingernail?

 

It had been an especially humid summer day. Hannibal was making his way back to his car from the scene of the human muralist’s crime, stepping over and around yellow tape and bodies concealed in black bags that had been undone from their original positions.

And it had been such a nice mural.

But no matter. He had also appreciated Tobias’ work, though strings of human intestine meant little to him now, months later. This was no different, of course.

Of course.

Hannibal proceeded to climb into his car, though it wasn’t without grace—everything Hannibal did, down to his every last movement, was measured. There were no mistakes, no happenstances. His _lifestyle_ could not be run on carelessness, that he knew. He also knew that he had not once been careless in his life since his fateful return from his vacation home all the way back in Lithuania.

The script was written behind his eyes; all that was left to call for was execution.

He was still driving, though he’d managed to distance himself a good deal from the sickeningly sweet aroma of corn, when a prickling sensation began to pulsate from his hand.

Without taking his eyes off the road, Hannibal willed himself to ignore it, the script changing ever so slightly. It took him but a moment to realize what exactly he’d been afflicted with—a small inconvenience he hadn’t had the displeasure of experiencing since he was a mere child, as he had often explored the woodland surrounding the Lecter Castle while accompanied by Mischa.

Ah, yes. A mosquito bite.

Nonetheless, the man continued to drive, fleetingly acknowledging the bite before throwing the thought away on command. If he didn’t think about it, it would go away. That was what his mother had always told him, and he had always replied that it was too itchy to ignore. But even so, things were much different, now. Much, much different.

Now he really _could_ refuse to think about it. Absolute control of his mind and body was necessary to be exactly what Hannibal Lecter was, and if he couldn’t handle a single mosquito bite, what did that make him?

No better than an ordinary layman.

He almost scoffed at how much thought he was deciding to _not_ give a bite from a tiny, insignificant insect. Mosquitoes had no real value to them; they were parasitic little things that had a simple one-track mind and left their supplier with nothing more than a literal itching irritation.

Though he’d encountered certain other creatures, supposedly quite a bit higher on the intelligence spectrum, that boasted striking similarities to the bloodsuckers.

As he drove, he finally realized that he was putting so much thought into the bite in order to distract himself from certain _other_ unfortunate occurrences. Something not as itchy, but closer to permeating his skin than the bite’s inconvenience.

Something like the hate he had garnered from a certain Will Graham.

But, still, that was nothing Hannibal could not handle. He was well-versed in the art of words, and he was sure he could talk his way back into Will’s favor; give him any European language and he could even talk you to death.

Literally.

Maybe he’d visit Will tomorrow, or so he thought as he finally glanced down to observe the unsightly red knot. After all, although his ex-patient was solely focused on hating Dr. Lecter, maybe they could strike up a conversation over the muralist and the psychology behind his killings that Hannibal already knew, but found it just as entertaining to watch Will as he flit between the realm of reality and the realm he himself had created, a realm where he murdered and lied to solve cases.

Maybe he’d even accuse Hannibal of killing the true muralist, and hiding him within his own masterpiece; the man did have a knack for sniffing the truth out, and now that the blindfold had slipped from Will's eyes, Hannibal was eager to see how it affected his reasoning.

_Yes,_ Hannibal decided, eyes returning to the road as his left hand reached over to rub idly at the sore that had become a subconscious irritation. _I’ll visit Will tomorrow._

And after all that introspection of value and virtue, he still scratched the mosquito bite.

**Author's Note:**

> If you didn't ragequit from pointlessness and are currently reading this, you're pretty cool and probably hate mosquitoes as much as I do :D


End file.
